


Revelations (by Kim G. and Linda)

by mickeym



Series: Randy and Michael [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Graphic Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-25
Updated: 2001-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Randy's secrets are revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations (by Kim G. and Linda)

**Author's Note:**

> Co-authored with Pierson.

July 21, 1998

Michael: I leaned against the back wall of the lift as it rose to my flat, my eyes closed, savoring the hum of my body as it settled from a long run in the building's first floor gymnasium. Wonderful. I loved running; it made me feel vibrantly alive and almost always put me into a very good mood.

The lift pinged, and the doors slid smoothly open. Half the top floor belonged to me, half to another tenant, a man slightly older than myself, of Middle Eastern origins, whom I'd met exactly once, flanked by a company of bodyguards, all impeccably dressed in Armani as fine as any I myself owned. I ran a finger over the moustache-beard combination that I'd grown once Randy had expressed an interest in it; I thought it made me look like a sheik, especially when stepping from the bath with a towel over my head. I'd wanted to shave it, but he liked it, so it stayed. I grinned wryly as I slid the keycard through the lock and punched in the code. What Randy wanted, I usually gave him.

I'm putty, I thought with fond amusement. Simply putty. Somehow, the thought didn't bother me overly much.

I kicked off my trainers at the door, and balanced on one foot and then the other as I peeled off the socks and dropped them into the shoes. I took a moment to set them neatly together, then tossed my card onto the foyer table. I could smell tea brewing and smiled. Bless Miles. He put his head out the door to the kitchen and smiled. "Good morning, Sir," he said gravely.

"Good morning, Miles," I replied, and slipped into my chair at the dining room table. My paper sat folded neatly before me, and before I'd had much of a chance to peruse it, Miles set down a tray with my favorite teapot and cup, the one Nonna had given me ages ago, and a croissant with jelly, and a selection of fruit and cheeses.

My early mornings had actually changed little since Randy had moved in three weeks ago. I was a creature of habit; I rose with the sun, went for my run, and had a leisurely breakfast before showering. Miles puttered about the kitchen as always, a familiar, comfortable presence. What had changed was the man currently sleeping in my bed, and the fact that Miles no longer set out my clothing, as he always had.

I poured a little milk into my tea and put in two lumps of sugar, as always. We'd come to a truce, the three of us, easier at some times than others. Miles and Randy quite obviously did not care for one another. Miles was careful to make himself absent before Randy's customary rising time---he rose at the last minute, then rushed about like a madman---and then disappeared again before Randy came home from work. He never touched anything that belonged to Randy; if Randy dropped something, and forgot to pick it up, Miles left it, cleaning carefully all about it in a manner I thought rather pointed. When they did meet face to face, the temperature always dropped several degrees, though they were terribly, terribly polite to one another.

I knew they'd had some sort of...disagreement...with one another I'd not witnessed, but had not inquired into it. I thought that as adults, they could hammer out some sort of an agreement, and they had, after a fashion, simply by ignoring one another. I supposed it was the best I could hope for; Miles would never be friendly with Randy, and Randy would never really accept Miles' place. I was glad they'd come to something resembling a truce; I really didn't want to be forced to settle the issue. As much as I lo...cared for Randy, I valued Miles and his place in my life. We'd been through so much together.

I glanced at the clock on the mantle and refolded my paper. Time to have at things. I rose and stretched luxuriously, then shook myself. I felt sticky and my clothes clammy from exercise. Miles stepped out of the kitchen to collect my breakfast things, and I smiled and told him I'd meet him in an hour and a half for the drive to the office. He nodded, and I knew he'd have the Mercedes ready for me precisely on time.

Barefooted, I padded across the flat and pushed open the door to our bedroom. Within, it was still dark and warm, scented with sex and sandalwood and Randy's own spicy-musky smell. On the way to the bath, I peeled off my tee shirt as I passed the bed, an antique four-poster from England. Somewhere beneath the hunter green sheets Randy had curled into as small a ball as a man his size could make; I could see little save a shock of blue-black hair. I stepped to his side of the bed and promptly stubbed my toe on the stack of heavy books he kept there.

I swore softly and brought my toe up to rub before reaching to turn on the bedside lamp, spilling golden light over our bed. His gold-framed glasses, the lenses glinting up at me, lay folded neatly upon yet another book, this one some political murder mystery. I think it had been about two before he had finally settled for the night; I'd merely rolled over when he'd slid beneath the sheets, his naked skin cool against me. I'd muttered vile things at him, but he'd laughed low and sweet into my ear, and had curled against me anyway, his breath warm and moist against the nape of my neck.

Yet another difference between the two of us; he stayed up most of the night reading or working whilst *I* had the sense to be asleep. In my wild, tearaway youth, I'd often stayed up late, but as I'd gotten older, I'd settled firmly into a fairly regular schedule, one seemingly at odds with Randy's. I was still trying to adjust to his schedule and suspected I would still be trying quite a while from now. I tugged at the edge of the sheet, until I'd found his forehead and then one closed, long-lashed eye. "Randy," I said softly, then more loudly, until he stirred and muttered something probably as vile as the things I'd said the night before. "Time to rise. Don't be such a lazy sod."

Randy: Something was shaking...the bed was shaking. No, Michael was shaking *me*. I groaned and tried to heave away from him, but he'd have none of it, and continued shaking my shoulder and calling my name until there was no way I could ignore him any longer.

"'M up." I waved my hand slightly in Michael's general direction and squeezed my eyes shut against the lamplight. I knew by now if I didn't say something, no matter how few syllables, he wouldn't leave me be until I did, so I generally grunted the first thing that came to mind. Anything to get a few more minutes of peace. I heard his soft chuckle before he pushed off away from me, probably headed for the bathroom.

I heard the shower switch on a few minutes later and knew I'd been right.

Even after three weeks of living together, and longer than that of knowing him, I still didn't understand how--never mind *why*--Michael got up so early. Exercise I could understand, but why do it so damn early? It completely defied logic. Especially when we could have started the day in a much different manner--and wouldn't one sort of exercise be easily replaced by another?

Dammit. I was awake now, at the ungodly hour of, Christ, just seven-thirty. I rolled over and stretched widely, enjoying the firm, comfortable mattress of the huge bed I now slept in. And it was huge. Michael told me he had to have sheets custom-made for it; nothing mass-produced would fit it. It'd taken some getting used to, since I wasn't accustomed to anything this size. But god, it was wonderful to sleep on. I sighed and stretched again, then shifted around. If I wasn't upright when Michael got out of the shower, I'd never hear the end of it.

It was Friday, if my fuzzy brain was recalling correctly. That meant I didn't have anything I had to do after work, just come home and relax. Hopefully spend some time with Michael; we'd been lacking severely in relaxing downtime together; last week he'd been in Phoenix for two days, then in New Orleans for two days after that. Four days alone here, wondering if he'd be okay on the plane, wondering how the weather would be for flying, wondering if he'd really want me here when he returned. Four days of not eating, hardly sleeping, pacing the floor each time I knew he was in the air. I'd thrown up three times the morning he left; I don't know if he ever knew--and if he did, I knew he didn't know *why* I was so sick...and I wasn't looking forward to telling him why, though I supposed I would have to do it sooner or later.

Sooner, actually. He'd asked me again last night after dinner about going to Phoenix for Danielle's wedding, and I'd switched the subject again. That made three times; I doubted Michael's patience was going to last forever with that. If nothing else, he would have to RSVP soon. By the end of this month, if I recalled correctly.

I sat up and swung my legs over so I could sit on the edge of the bed. In this position, if I was right on the edge, my feet almost touched flat on the floor. Almost. It would've been embarrassing, except Michael's didn't touch flat completely either. I wasn't sure anyone's would, except maybe Larry Bird or Magic Johnson, or any other NBA player. The shower switched off and I sighed; if I'd moved a little faster I could have caught him in there, maybe had a nice little wake up session. He always tried to get me up in time; it wasn't his fault he wasn't always successful.

I stood up finally and reached for my robe; I'd tossed it across the chair next to the closet before I got into bed last night. Glasses next; I had to get some coffee in me before I could even think of doing anything else--up to and including showering. I glanced at the clock; it was twenty 'til eight. Miles should be gone by now, safely back in his own apartment, well away from the barbarian Michael was sleeping with now, which was me. That was fine; seeing his dour face frowning at me never started my morning off particularly well, either. I knew Michael didn't understand why I didn't just let it go, let Miles do for me as he did for him. If I were honest with myself, it would have been easier to just let him do the odd chores--pick stuff up, do my laundry, cook, like he did for Michael. Trouble was, I couldn't wrap my brain around it. It just seemed--invasive. Intrusive. Both.

I smelled my brew as soon as I opened the door. God bless timers. I drank the first cup straight black and steaming hot; Michael always goggled slightly when he watched me do that, amazed that I didn't scald my mouth or throat. The second cup went down like that as well. The third or fourth cup I might add a little sugar, but that was it. Coffee was meant to be consumed as it was brewed. No additions; those were for wimps. I laughed as I thought about telling Josh that since he never drank his with anything less than about a half a cup of milk and another half cup of sugar.

I poured myself a third cup and headed back for the bedroom as my mind rambled through my calendar for today. There was a staff meeting scheduled for ten-thirty. Oh, joy. And I had a meeting with Doctor Bramwell from the Foundation committee at two. Maybe I could get lunch in between the two, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Staff meetings notoriously went at least two hours--partly because we only had them every month or so. I would have to make a sandwich before I left, just in case, or better yet, hit the deli outside the compound on my way in. Well, hell. The meeting with Doctor Bramwell meant no jeans and boots today, either, then. Dress slacks and a shirt, and--fuck. A tie. A suit jacket. I sighed and set my cup down on the dresser, then ambled toward the bathroom. Michael was brushing his teeth, completely naked. What a wonderful sight for first thing in the morning. Or second thing. Before coffee, I likely wouldn't be able to appreciate it. I snugged up behind him and bit his neck gently, then laughed when he shivered. "Morning, darlin'. Sleep well?"

Michael: I spat toothpaste and rinsed before answering his reflection. "Moderately well," I replied, and smiled at him. He'd managed to rake his short hair into some sort of order; I'd never understood how it could stand up so oddly after sleep. I turned and slipped my arm about his waist and pressed a kiss to his mouth. He tasted of coffee, and I was grateful he'd gotten up as well as he had; generally, it was a tussle to get him out of bed. Mornings were not something he relished, though he did like a quick, early morning toss in the sheets well enough. I kissed his neck; it was warm and fragrant with his scent, and with sleep. "Have any plans after work? Teaching anything?"

We'd had little time together in the past week, and he'd been acting...well, not *oddly*, but different since I'd gotten back from my last trip, the one to New Orleans. And he'd been very anxious when I'd called him both times to tell him I'd settled in, though he'd tried to hide it. The night I'd returned from New Orleans, he'd pounced upon me the moment I opened the door, and had been practically attached at the hip for the rest of the night. Not that I minded; I liked how he'd petted me, how he'd touched me, how sweet and fierce he'd been in the bed. But as much as I'd enjoyed his wholly undivided attention, there had been something almost desperate about it that I couldn't quite figure out. Randy was *not* a high-maintenance lover, demanding my complete attention; attentive yes, but he was not dependent and clinging. I'd not had a chance to feel him out about it, but I hadn't let it slip past me, nor had I let it pass unnoticed that he'd been evasive about Danie's wedding, and the trip to Phoenix. I had to answer that invitation soon.

Randy: "No plans tonight. It's Friday." I grinned as I said it, then leaned in to kiss him again, a quick brush of my lips over his. "It's dress-down day for most of us," I let go of him and reached for my own toothbrush; deep kissing was just kind of nasty with dragon-breath. "However, I have a meeting this afternoon which necessitates a *tie*." I gave the last word a sort of sneer and grinned around toothpaste while Michael laughed at me. I wondered how much longer I could put off talking about Phoenix and weddings, and business trips and flying. Maybe if we went out for dinner, then came back here, and I pounced--

I gave myself a mental shake. That was dishonest in the extreme, and as much as I disliked--no, *loathed* was a better word for it--talking about flying and planes and other related things, it had to be done. Michael deserved to know why I was going to say no...to any and all potential trips. My belly tightened when I thought about what that meant as far as the holidays; I knew, because he'd told me several times now, that Michael returned to England each year for at least two weeks, and longer if he could manage it, at Christmas. I sighed and spat again. If his business trips sent me running for the john, what would a twelve-plus hour flight across the ocean do? "Want to have dinner out? Mexican, maybe? I know a place that has a great Mariachi band on Fridays."

Michael: I gave his bum a pat as I slipped past him. "Sounds good to me. I'm taking off earlier today---a little after lunch. I've nothing scheduled for the afternoon, and so thought I'd give myself a bit of a break as I spent so much time traveling this past week. I thought spending the afternoon with Murphy sounded like a wonderful thing, eh?" I stopped at the clothes press, and slipped on a pair of black silk boxers.

Randy: "It sounds great." I called after him, then shook my head at my reflection. He'd be dressed by the time I was out of the shower, but oh, well. Couldn't be helped. Unless we did our groping and sweating before showering, it was pretty much a no-go until after work. And since I could hear him puttering around opening this or that drawer, I knew he'd be dressed shortly. Unlike my snail's pace in the morning, Michael moved quickly, efficiently, and with purpose. Sometimes I envied him that; most of the time it just irritated me.

I stepped into the shower and washed off quickly, then took a moment to stand under the hot spray, letting the heat soak into my bones. It felt really good to stretch and shift, loosening my muscles up. Maybe we could take a day trip on the boat this weekend. We hadn't been out for more than a few hours in weeks. Literally.

Michael was completely dressed by the time I got out of the bathroom. I stood in the doorway for a minute and watched him rub a rag across the tip of his shoes, making them gleam enough I could see it from where I was. I laughed and he looked up at me. "Gonna use it for a mirror when no one's looking?"

Michael: I straightened and took my foot off the low chest at the foot of the bed and folded the cloth neatly. "Naturally. You know how vain I am," I replied with a little bite of sarcasm. "I can sit at my desk with my feet propped up and admire myself."

Randy snickered and pulled on his big terry robe. I was most grateful; seeing him in the altogether was entirely too distracting, and if I started, we'd both be tardy for work. Ah, well, later.

He disappeared back into the bath, and I pulled two ties from the closet rack. Comparing them, I followed him into the bath. I draped one around my neck beneath the collar of my shirt, and the other, I draped over the back of his neck. Slipping my arms around him, I folded and tucked it very precisely; Randy seemed incapable of tying his own ties. It hung loose around his neck, looking faintly ludicrous against the smooth expanse of chest revealed by the gap in his robe. "There. This one will look nice on you...once you have a shirt to go with it." I pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw; he hadn't shaved yet, and was bristly with beard.

Randy: "Ah, but ties without shirts are *so* cool." I grinned at him in the mirror, then reached for my shaving gel. I was going to have to do all of me at some point this weekend, but that was not a job to undertake when I had to get myself off to work. I turned my head enough to kiss him back properly and shivered when he rubbed his cheek against mine. Even freshly shaved Michael had a very light stubble; the sensation of beard scraping beard was something I enjoyed, along with the slight burn that came with it. I eyed our reflections as Michael stepped back; he was neat and presentable, ready for the office. I still looked vaguely like a porcupine. "So what time do you want to have dinner? You gonna be home reasonably early?"

Michael: I finished my own tie, snugging the knot up just precisely so. "My afternoon is my own, so I can be home at any time." I'd already packed my bag with my riding clothes, and it sat beside the door. "Just let me know, and I can leave whenever it's convenient. I'll take the pager with me."

Randy: I shook my head, then tilted it back enough to start the strokes. "Take your cell; I hate calling pagers. I was thinking about dinner around seven, though--still early enough to beat the worst of the rush, but that'll give us both time to change. And for you to shower." Too hard to talk and shave; I'd said all I was going to say for a couple of minutes. Michael's gaze was still on me, watching me intently in the mirror, and shivers tripped and down my nervous system at the not-quite-concealed emotion I saw there. I looked away from him, concentrating on my own reflection, scared and warmed by what I saw.

Michael: "As you wish." I leaned in and kissed the back of his neck, just beneath his hairline. Sometimes he was as skittish as a thoroughbred, and I never knew what would set him off. My hand dropped to squeeze his hip. "I'll have something for you to eat when you get dressed."

He smiled at me, and I left. Back into the kitchen, dropping off my bag with riding clothing at the front door. Some bagels with cream cheese; Randy liked the oddest kinds and combinations. I glanced at the clock, and nodded to myself; right on schedule.

I took everything back to the dining room and placed it at the chair he'd claimed for himself and took out my worn planner, checking off things I had scheduled for the morning. There, in red ink, I'd written, "RSVP". Hmm. I wasn't certain why Randy had evaded the question for so long; his brush-offs had been nicely phrased, but I needed to know whether to reply for myself, or for us both. If he didn't wish to go, all he had to do was to tell me, and I'd go alone; it wasn't a problem. But the waffling was uncharacteristic and bothered me. I leaned back in the chair and rubbed the back of my neck. I'd not bring it up now---I'd wait until dinner tonight, or after, when we could discuss it. And discuss it we would; I'd let him evade me long enough. I closed my planner and set it on the table before me, waiting for Randy to tear out of the bedroom.

Randy: When in the hell the clock jumped from "you have plenty of time" to "get your ass in gear, buddy", I never could figure out. One minute I was doing fine, the next I was borderline late. Well, never *late*--but definitely pushing it. I slipped dress shoes on and tied them quickly, then tightened the knot on the tie Michael started for me. Suit jacket, and I was ready to go, just had to grab my satchel from its new resting place by the front door. I patted my pocket once to be sure I had my wallet, and headed for the dining room.

Michael, bless him, had bagels toasted and dressed for me, his expression just this side of smug. I slid into my chair and reached for the first one. He'd included a glass of juice--orange-pineapple. Perfect. "I was thinking, it'd be nice if we could do some sailing this weekend; maybe a day trip, or even just a few hours. Interested?"

Michael: "I might be. I've nothing planned this weekend, but next...I've a formal dinner to attend that I scheduled in months ago. No evading that, I'm afraid." I stood and shrugged into my suit jacket, adjusting it for comfort before buttoning it. I wondered if this would be the time to tell him that I had planned to accompany Kyra Blaine; that, too, had been set up at the time. I had no feelings for Kyra of a romantic nature, but she had needed an escort, and I'd been available at the time. I needed to ring her up and talk with her about it, see if she'd found an escort to it in the meantime. I rather hoped she had. I glanced at Randy and decided that, like the wedding invitation, this was not something I should bring up at the moment. Again, later.

I'd really hoped that living together would have actually given us time together, but I didn't really see him that much more than I had before, given his frantic schedule of work, teaching, and volunteering. Mine tended to be more flexible than his; I could have Erich or Miles reschedule things rather easily, but Randy was teaching and that couldn't be worked around.

Randy: I nodded, unable to chew and answer at the same time. Michael had an odd look in his eyes; if I didn't know better, I'd have said it was sadness. Over what, I wasn't sure. Time constraints? I hated the fact that we still didn't see each other much--between my teaching and volunteer work, and his business travel and meetings. It made me feel shaky sometimes, especially on those rare occasions I called him and got Erich--then had to rely on a message system. I sighed. "I understand obligations, darlin'. Believe me." I tried a smile. "Maybe things will calm down some this fall, eh?" I pushed my chair back and picked the plate up, heading for the sink. "Time to run, I guess."

Michael: Almost literally. He straightened his jacket--he looked quite smashing in a suit, no matter how he protested wearing them--and picked up his satchel. It was worn and battered looking, and I'd have liked to have gotten him another, but he could be obstinate about the oddest things, and so I wasn't sure. I wondered if any of his other lovers had ever gotten him gifts just for the pleasure of it; he never seemed comfortable receiving them. The gold watch I'd gifted him with on my return from New Orleans had been welcomed, but I thought it had made him uncomfortable in some way. I liked to give gifts to lovers but was aware that I had to be careful lest it seem as if I tried to buy their affection. I'd been fortunate that Nicole and Danie both had understood that I gave for the pleasure of giving; some had not.

I caught him at the door for a kiss goodbye; outside of the flat, we were proper--well, most of the time. I couldn't help but smile against his mouth at the thought of the times we hadn't been properly proper. He tasted sweet, like pineapple and orange, and I thought, to hell with schedules and meetings, and everything else, *this* deserves the utmost attention. I pressed him against the door and leaned into him; he was so warm against me, so firm and substantial and *there*. Lovely. I heard a thump as his satchel hit the floor and his arms went about me, pulling me even closer and pouring himself into our kiss.

Randy: For the first time in nearly seven years, the thought flitted through my mind that I could call in sick. Surely it would be much more pleasant to stay at home with Michael, to fuck ourselves silly, to talk, to play chess, to do nothing but BE together. Which was a wholly impractical thought. I gripped his shoulders tighter, pulled him closer to me, trying to meld our bodies into one. For an instant all the fears I had about being here, about opening myself up to him, came rushing to the fore, slamming into me. I clutched at him for a moment, felt his fingers tighten in surprised response, then the feelings faded and the moment passed, and our mouths gentled against each other. Michael pulled back from me just enough so he could look at me, and the tenderness in his eyes made me want to both flinch backward and to fling myself into him. I settled for smoothing my fingers through the hair at his temple. "I...guess I'll see you tonight, darlin'."

Michael: For a span of heartbeats I stood there, puzzled, then smiled and straightened his tie. I let my fingers trail down his chest, following the smooth cool silk, and reluctantly pulled them back as I came to his belt buckle. Another moment of uncertainty flashed through his dark green eyes, and then he tilted his head and the light glinted off the lenses of his glasses, hiding his expressive eyes from me. "I think it would be lovely to go sailing this weekend," I said gently. "Let's plan for it, shall we?"

Randy: "For a little while." I reached out and touched him, mirroring his motion of stroking my tie, feeling the coolness of silk slip under my fingers. "I want...to spend the weekend together, Michael, just relaxing, just you and me. I'm not going to go anywhere or do anything else. Just us. Starting with dinner tonight." And I knew what would happen at some point...we'd have to talk about that damn invitation, and then I'd have to make a choice--to tell him or not. Actually, the choice wasn't even that, since I'd already decided to tell him. It was more a question of how *much* to tell him. No one knew the whole story. No one ever had. I sighed, leaned in and kissed him once more, quickly, then bent down to get my satchel. "Have a good day chewing up the competition, darlin'."

Michael: "I shall, as always." I gave him the shark's grin, and he returned a crooked smile. I picked up my own bag, and we left together, the same as we had for the past three weeks.

We parted at the garage; he climbed into that damn *red* truck I liked so well, and I slipped into the back of the Mercedes Miles had pulled forward once he saw us. Randy left first with a nod, and I returned it before settling comfortably into the back seat and picking up my paper.

Today would fly by quickly; Erich had rescheduled a couple of meetings for today to get them out of the way for the weekend. After that, I was free for two and a half days, and when I got to the office, I'd make damn sure Erich would not bother me for anything less than an utter emergency. I'd planned to drive out to Sheila's for lunch, and then spend the afternoon riding Murphy out on the trails. After that, dinner with Randy, and this weekend, a day out on the ocean. We needed the time together, and I knew the freedom and joy of sailing would help to settle his odd mood. I thought of our last sailing trip, and smiled. "Lovely," I murmured.

"Sir?"

I looked up and saw Miles' curious brown eyes in the rearview mirror. "Nothing, Miles. Just making plans for the weekend."

"Very good, sir," Miles replied in a carefully neutral tone, and I returned to the perusal of my newspaper.

*****

Randy: I gave my tie a jerk then pulled it over my head to fling it on the seat beside me. Finally over. I didn't think a day could last as long as this one had; apparently I'd been mistaken.

Staff meetings sucked as a general rule; I knew that and learned to make the most of them. The meeting with Dr. Bramwell was necessary, and not bad, just *long*. I hadn't had such a thorough investigation of myself since applying to Pierson Pharmaceuticals to begin with. We covered my credentials. My areas of interest in science. My short and long-term goals and plans. Two hours of talking, explaining, exploring. And this was just the initial interview; I wasn't even necessarily going to make the first cut. I would find out sometime in the next month or so. The ribbon-cutting ceremony to begin construction was next month; I knew, because management sent out a memo informing everyone. I sighed and put the truck in gear, wondering--worrying--about this evening again. Wondering if I could put off the inevitable one more day.

Michael answered his cell phone quickly when I rang, and said he was on his way home even now. That would get us home at about the same time, which sounded just perfect. A quick shower for him, to get rid of the stronger aspects of his afternoon, then off to dinner. Maybe I'd have a beer with dinner. A Corona with lime. Get drunk. Avoid the subject altogether.

"Coward." I muttered aloud, acknowledging the truth of it. I wondered if Michael drove himself out to Sheila's, or if Miles drove him. Who would be waiting at home for me when I got there? In my present state of mental agitation, I could hardly wait to find out.

Michael: The afternoon had been perfect; the sky a shade of blue one never saw in the city, and the air sweet with summer. Sheila had joined me for the latter part of my ride after her lessons, and we'd ended up tearing over the fields as we'd often done as teenagers, taking hedges and fences with reckless abandon. Poor Murphy had been rather winded after that, and after I'd curried and pampered him, and after I'd cleaned all my tack, Sheila had poured a glass of wine for us both and we sat sprawled comfortably in her office, chatting about old times, and people we'd once known.

When Randy called, I was mellow and relaxed, and glad to hear from him. Once I'd rung off and stood to go, Sheila had laughed at me and called me whipped in much the same tone Josh had called his brother Sam, and I had to laugh with her. She kissed me soundly, and then I was off, without pausing to change into the shirt and denims I'd brought with me. I'd driven myself out, and hummed along with the Billie Holliday CD in the player. A shower to rid myself of the smell of horse, hay, and leather, and then some spicy Mexican food--Randy certainly knew how to pick his restaurants--and then we were free for the weekend.

Randy: To my surprise, no one was in the apartment--condo, actually, Michael told me he owned it--when I got there. Which was more than fine with me. As badly as I wanted to see Michael, to just immerse myself in him, seeing Michael also meant I'd have to deal with other things I didn't want to deal with yet. A few minutes to prepare, to ready myself, were most welcome. I got myself a glass of juice, made a mental note to put some more bottles of water in before the evening was over, and headed toward the bedroom to change. I was most definitely not staying in the monkey suit any longer than necessary.

I'd stripped down and started to change--had a pair of faded Levi's on--when I heard the door click open. Michael's voice called out to me, and I grinned both from relief that it wasn't Miles, and happiness that it was Michael. "I'm in the bedroom, darlin'."

Michael: Randy's deep, honey-sweet voice came from the bedroom, slightly muffled. I heeled the front door shut, and dropped keys and keycard onto the table beside the door in the foyer. Randy's satchel sat below the table, leaning crookedly against one of the legs. I really should get him another.

I swung by the kitchen for a glass of water, and then by the stereo and flipped the switch. Something soft and low and bluesy filtered out, and I smiled. I'd halfway expected some relentlessly cheerful country tune to blast out through the flat, but this was nice, very.

I wandered through the flat, bypassing the study; I knew Miles would have mail laid out for me on my desk, but I felt too mellow to look at anything at the present moment.

Warm golden light spilled into the hall from the half-open bedroom door, and I slipped through it, my boot heels muffled by the carpets. Ah. My heart did that curious little flip, as it always seemed to do after I'd not seen Randy all day; I wondered if it would always do that.

Randy stood with his back to me, barefooted and in denims that rode low over his left hip; I had the sudden urge to kiss the tender skin there, to leave a mark. Muscles flowed smoothly beneath his soft, lightly tanned skin as he pulled on a black tee shirt. He partially turned, and the light from the bedside lamp ran loving fingers over his chest and belly.

I shifted slightly; his movements were fluid and graceful, and I didn't think I'd ever tire of watching him. He had to be aware of his appeal, his masculine beauty, but he never seemed to give it a second thought, never consciously used it, and often seemed surprised and slightly embarrassed when I made comments and offered compliments. That innate modesty made him even more appealing. My throat seemed suddenly dry, and I remembered the glass of water in my hand and took a sip. Better. Although I was loath to break the spell, I thought he might not like to find me watching him so closely. I cleared my throat slightly. "Hullo, Randy," I said softly.

Randy: My belly tightened as I turned, and my heart gave a funny little jump it seemed to do whenever I heard Michael's voice. I could have shrugged it off as just liking the accent--which I did--but it was so much more than that. It was the deep, rich tones, the warmth he put into the words, the way his eyes caressed me any time he spoke to me.

He stood just out of the lamp's light, profile in the soft shadows of early evening, and I stepped aside enough to let the light reach him, hungry to see his face, his eyes, uncertain how he'd become *so* important so quickly--and for a change, uncaring. He was, and that was that. "Hello, Michael."

I took a step forward and realized then why he looked so different. My mouth quirked into a smile as I looked him over; so *this* was "proper riding attire". Form-fitting white pants--breeches, I think he'd called them--tucked neatly into knee-high black boots whose finish was dulled now by dust. I had the oddest urge to fling myself onto my knees, and resisted only by the barest margin. His eyes--those were highlighted, brought into relief--reflected the dark green of the sweater he was wearing, and I shivered looking at him, his arms exposed as the sleeves were pushed up, at the raw power there. I could see him in my mind's eye, holding Murphy's reins, and wanted badly to see him riding, dressed like this. My mouth opened, but I didn't know what to say. He looked...incredible...but how to say that without sounding like some sort of simpering fool? I settled for stepping closer, then reaching out to touch the collar of the sweater, my fingers stroking over the fine knitted pattern. I had to clear my throat before I could make my voice work, and it still came out husky, thick with emotion. "You look awfully good, darlin'."

Michael: "As do you."

I set the glass down and slid my hands over his narrow hips, pulling him closer, nuzzling against the side of his neck, scenting him. He hadn't showered yet; I could just barely make out his cologne, something a little musky, a little like the woods. He never wore very much, regardless, and I was addicted to his scent. My mouth ghosted over his throat, and I felt the movement of his muscles as he swallowed. I think he thought I would bite him, and I was sorely tempted to do so. Instead, I trailed my mouth over his throat and up his neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his skin.

He shivered and made a little sound, and my fingers tightened for a moment on his hips. He sighed as I licked, then nibbled at his earlobe and the corner of his jaw, and his breathing quickened. I smiled against his skin, and one hand trailed up beneath his tee shirt. Soft skin, and oh, so warm. My fingers slipped along the groove of his spine lightly, fingernails just barely touching, and he quivered again. It matched my own; I shifted, pressing closer, as my arousal grew. I nosed through his hair, short and silky, and bit his ear gently. "I'm hungry."

Randy: Somehow, I didn't think he was talking about food, per se. And suddenly, I didn't care if we ate at seven pm, or ten pm, or not until tomorrow morning. I pressed myself against him and slipped my hands down his chest to his waist, then around, to hold him closer. He laughed softly against my ear, the sound thick and breathless, making me shiver again. I teased my hands over the rounded, defined muscle of his ass, cupping and rubbing, pressing him tighter against me. It felt good to feel him growing so hard against me. I could touch him forever, probably. Michael shivered when I slid one hand under his sweater to tease at the skin of his lower back, and I turned my head to scrape my teeth lightly over his throat, loving the raw sound that escaped from him. "I am, too."

Michael: Heat crawled through me, thick and heavy, like honey, like his voice. I hadn't been inside him for days--and as good as sucking or even quick hand jobs were, nothing, nothing replaced the pleasure of that, of feeling his tight heat around me, feeling him thrash and moan beneath me. Fuck dinner. We'd go later.

His hand slid around, fingers tracing wickedly over the erection clearly defined by the tightness of my riding pants. He nosed beneath the loose neck of my sweater, and I felt a sharp sting over my collarbone. I hissed and startled.

He'd bitten me. I could hear his chuckle, muffled by wool and skin, even as my body surged against him, wanting more, seeking more. I liked how he wasn't passive, liked how he sought his own pleasure, liked how he wasn't afraid to scratch or bite when he felt like it.

Hell, I liked everything he did.

His palm rubbed hard against my cock, then his fingers reached down to cup my balls and stroke gently. I couldn't help the sound of pleasure that escaped me. I gave him a little push, just far enough away that I could move, and reached down to jerk the tee shirt roughly from him. I sent it flying through the air; from the corner of my eye, I saw it land on the top of the clothes press. His chest rose and fell as his breathing grew harsher; his nipples hardened, and his eyes darkened, grew promising. Oh, yes. I savored the way he looked, so full of hot sensual fire, wanting *me*, his cock hard beneath the worn denim before I pounced, mouth covering his voraciously, my hands going to squeeze his ass and pull him roughly to me.

Randy: "Michael." It came out as something between a growl and a whimper, and when he squeezed me hard again it was all growl. I buried my face in his neck, licked and sucked at the salty skin there. The scent of horses, of leather, of sweat rose up strongly and I shuddered against him before biting down again. "I like it rough," I whispered before sucking at the bite. He shivered against me, and I laughed again.

I loved to taste him. I loved to touch him. I wanted to worship him...properly. Down on my knees, kissing, licking, sucking, teasing him until he was mindless with need. I wanted to give and give and give, and have him take. I just wasn't sure we were there yet, where I could, or he would, or anything else like that.

I stroked my hands down his chest, the sweater soft beneath my fingers, then ran them up underneath, feeling the crispness of chest hair rubbing against my skin. I loved this, the contrast between my chest and his. I pinched one nipple lightly at the same time I scraped my teeth across the bite I'd just given him. He jumped like he'd been stung, then growled low in his throat. When his fingers pulled roughly at the buttons holding my jeans closed, I groaned, my cock throbbing harder.

Michael: It occurred to me as I popped the last button on his fly and plunged my hand inside to encircle his cock, thick and heavy and throbbing, that this might be done more comfortably than against the door. I pumped him once, twice, and his body rose into the motions, his fingers curling to tighten in my chest hair. He was so wet already; his scent was strong and musky and masculine, and fairly made my mouth water for him. I pulled my hand from him and licked my fingers, watching as his eyes grew huge and black. His own hand shot out and seized my wrist, and pulled my hand to his mouth. I watched, almost drugged, as he licked my fingers and sucked on them with the most lascivious noises, his eyes looking up at me from beneath his long lashes in the most wicked way. It made me burn with hunger and need, made me rough and impatient for him.

"Enough," I said, and hooked my fingers in the waistband of his jeans and hauled him toward the bed.

He made a pleased sound, and as we reached the bed, wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me down atop him. We bounced, and our teeth clicked together as he kissed me. His legs came up about my hips, and he thrust up against me, his hard, wet cock slipping against my belly. Wonderful, but not what I wanted. I pried myself off him--no easy task, as he was stronger than I--and pushed myself from the bed. He lay there, gasping, his hips moving gently, his cock curving thick red and hard against his belly. Beautiful. Mine. But I bit back the words before they escaped. Now wasn't the time.

With a heave, I flipped him to his belly and pulled his hips off the bed so his feet rested on the floor and his chest on the mattress. His head turned, and he looked up at me curiously and made a little motion as if he'd move. I pressed my hand to the small of his back and slid up his back, trailing kisses and nips up his spine, smiling against his warm, sweaty skin as he shivered. "Don't fucking move," I said gently in his ear, and then bit the back of his neck.

Randy: Oh, god. I groaned, my cock throbbing harshly where it was pinned against the mattress. I bucked helplessly against Michael when he bit me again, teeth snapping harder on tender skin than before, and his hand pressed down harder, warning me. Another bite had me writhing under him, my hips pumping in a fucking motion. I twisted my head a little and breathed, "Please...Michael. Harder. Bite me harder...."

Michael: Well, how interesting. I laughed against his shoulder, a low, somehow terribly smutty sound. I licked over his shoulder, tasting sweat and musk and *Randy*, and found a place that would be hidden by his shirt. I bit, not hard enough to draw blood, and then sucked until I felt the warmth of blood rushing to the place, making a spectacular love bite. From the way he jerked beneath me and moaned, I thought he would come. No, too soon--I wanted to play more.

I slid down his body, wrapped my hands around his hips, and pulled until his hips were away from the bed, and his cock hung heavily beneath his belly. He made an abortive move to return, so he could rub against the bed, but I pulled him back again. I jerked down his jeans and admired the roundness of his ass, the bunch of powerful muscles beneath the skin, the shadowed cleft where I'd soon be buried. I could see his strong hands clench in the duvet, knotting the soft material, and hear his moans. I was so hard I ached. I put my hand on his right ass cheek and squeezed hard and was rewarded by a deeper moan. I caught a flash of one green eye, and then he deliberately scooted back toward the bed. The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, and I *knew* he dared me. My own mouth twitched, and my cock throbbed. I brought my hand up, then down upon his cheek with a sharp smack that sounded very loud in the quietness of our room.

Randy: "God, *again*, please..." I wasn't sure if I said it aloud, or just imagined I did, until Michael's hand came down on my ass a second time. They weren't hard smacks; in fact, they were far noisier than they were painful. I wanted it switched around. I shifted forward again, watching him out of the corner of my eye, aching to rub my cock against something until I came, aching to have Michael bite me over and over while I rubbed. Or maybe bite me while he fucked me. Oh, hell, I didn't care at that point what he did, as long as it was rough, and felt good. And that would be about anything.

His hand came down a little harder and I yelped and shoved backward, then groaned when he probed between my cheeks, his fingers rough and impatient. I tensed up, then relaxed, something inside me whispering this was what I wanted so bad--to have him take me hard, to take his pleasure even as I got mine. I pushed back against his fingers and whimpered when he pulled away. The sound of him rifling through the drawer of the bedside table made my stomach twist; when he touched me again his fingers were slick, rubbing teasingly around my hole while his other hand squeezed and pushed at my ass. When he pressed hard, pushing one finger into me I tightened around him, then whispered hoarsely, "Fuck me, Michael... let me feel you."

Michael: He was so tight, so hot. I don't think he stopped moving, his hips pushing back against me, seeking to drive me deeper into him. His arse was barely pink where I'd slapped him; it had been more noise than actual stimulation. I'd known he liked it rough, but I'd never actually deliberately done it before. I found I rather liked it; it had been a long time since I'd played like this. I wouldn't go past this, not now, not yet; we'd not set the parameters for such things, and I never played without rules and words. Never. No matter how tempting, and oh, it was *very* tempting.

I pushed my fingers a little deeper into him and twisted, and as I did, he almost howled as I brushed across his prostate. I leaned in and pressed a kiss to the middle of his back, just between his shoulder blades, my sweater dragging along his skin; the wool was prickly and raised goose bumps.

"Pretty boy," I murmured, low and coaxing. "Such a pretty boy, such a pretty poppet, such a pretty pet." I pulled back, slid three fingers in, and he clenched tightly around them, rocking back against me. I reached beneath him and petted his belly; his muscles were rigid. The backs of my knuckles brushed against his cock, and he bucked beneath me like a wild horse. "You'd like to be my pet, wouldn't you?" I slid my fingers slowly downward; I loved how he was so smooth and shaven. He made a soft keening noise and shuddered, clenching even harder on my fingers, and I squeezed him firmly to keep him from coming; I wasn't ready for him to spend yet. I rocked against his hip, pressing my own hard cock against him, but then decided I'd best not do that; I felt hugely swollen, one massive nerve ending. I let go his cock, and my hand was wet where he'd leaked so much. I pulled my fingers from him with a wet sound, and he moaned a protest.

I unzipped the riding pants and shoved them, and the long-legged briefs down, hissing as my cock emerged, ready and aching, hot and red. I slicked myself with a palmful of gel and pushed against his opening. He shoved back against me, seeking to impale himself, but I pulled back.

"Eager pet," I murmured. "So hungry for it, aren't you?"

Randy: "Oh, God, yes." I shuddered when he rubbed himself against me, every nerve ending in that one tiny place alive and afire with need. And his words...his tone...calling me *pet*. I ached to be his pet, and he knew it, damn him. I could hear his low, throaty laugh when I pushed backward again, my ass clenching and releasing as I tried to entice him into going faster. It was as though I would explode if I didn't get him inside me and soon. All his teasing with his fingers only made me hotter, ratcheting my arousal up several notches.

Michael gripped my cheeks in both hands and spread me wide, rubbing his slick cock over and over my hole until I was begging wordlessly, pushing up toward him, whimpering with need. When I thought I might go insane if he teased me anymore, he held still for a moment, then pushed inside, one quick, hard thrust that made me see stars as my body hurried to expand, to keep up. I gave a shout when he did it again, this time laying a quick, hard slap against my left cheek. "Please!" I wasn't sure if I sobbed it, or shouted it; much the same, regardless. "Please, Michael. Hard. Fuck me hard...make me yours."

Michael: It was so good with him; so much better than with anyone else. He twisted and thrashed beneath me, moaning and swearing and demanding *more* and *harder* and *deeper*. His skin grew slick with sweat as I complied, building up to a hard, steady, deep thrusting forceful enough to lift him to his toes. He turned his face enough that I could see one eye; it was almost black with passion, his cheeks bright pink, hair plastered to his forehead. His full mouth was parted and pink as he panted; I wanted to kiss him, but couldn't, not in this position.

I pulled back enough to strip the sweater off and send it flying; I was burning up. He didn't like the slacking of rhythm, and thrust back against me, swearing at me; I smacked his left arsecheek again, and he yelled, wriggling harder beneath me.

I couldn't keep such a wild, reckless pace forever; I felt my coming tingling along my spine, gathering in my balls. I reached beneath him, curled my fingers around his slick cock and pumped hard in time to my strokes. "Come for me, pet, come now...."

Randy: I was going to disintegrate with heat in a moment; I was drowning in it, being eaten alive, by it and the voracious need scrambling along my nerve endings. His hand on my cock, his voice rough and thick in my ear, telling me--no, commanding me--to come sent more heat skittering through me, a volcanic wash of fire that should have left me nothing more than a pile of ashes beneath him. He stroked me once more and I came with a roar, the sensation starting at my toes and growing as it flowed, then slammed through me. I shouted until my throat was raw and hoarse, until I didn't have breath left to shout any longer, my body bucking and pumping as I fucked myself into his hand.

Michael: My ears should have rang with his shout, but I could barely hear it over the roar of my own body as his orgasm triggered my own. I wrapped my arms tightly about him and ground my hips against him as I came with a cry almost as loud as his. Too much, too much, and yet not enough as I tried to climb into him and be a part of him. I felt his ribs creak, and he made a muffled sound of protest before I loosened my grip, breathing hard against his sweaty back. I could feel my blood tumbling through my veins, feel my heart pounding beneath my breastbone, feel my cock twitch in his tight, hot heat, spent, but still seeking more. I squeezed him again, and shifted enough to press a kiss against the back of his neck, against his short wet hair. "Caro...."

Randy: "Michael--" It came out more as a gasp than a word, and I gulped in another breath, trying desperately to get enough air. I could feel my heart pounding hard and fast in my chest and wondered how Michael would explain my body in his bed when it burst from the strain. At least I'd go a happy man.

The bites on my neck and back throbbed every time my heart beat, and I shuddered as a small aftershock raced through me, igniting my blood again, however briefly.

Michael's cock was softening inside me and I heard his sigh at the same time I growled softly in frustration. Would that he could stay inside me until he was hard again. Maybe pigs would fly someday, too. I rolled beneath him, shifting both of us enough that I could move onto my side facing him. I wanted...so many things in that moment, when I looked into his eyes. They were dark, so dark, calling to mind the thunderstorms of my youth, Texas skies grey-black with omnipotence, laughing at the mortals who gazed upward in fear. Except I wasn't afraid of Michael. Of what I felt for him, yes. But not of him. Never of him. I surged forward, my arms going tight around him, bringing him closer to me to kiss, my mouth feeding at his, as if I could devour him. When I drew back to breathe again, I buried my face in the hollow between his neck and his shoulder, the words so close, so *there* I almost whispered them aloud.

Michael: Randy tucked his face into my throat, wrapped his brawny arms around me, and curled into my body. It was rather nice, and I stroked the back of his head gently. I swore I could feel his heart beating against my own, and my mouth curved upward slightly in a smile at that fanciful notion.

I felt drifty, yet alert and aware. It was no hardship to hold him and pet him; I loved the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips. He relaxed against me, and eventually his breathing slowed back to normal rhythms, as did my own. For a moment, I thought him asleep and reached for the edge of the coverlet, as the sweat had dried, and I was feeling chill. He stirred, though, as I dragged the cover over us haphazardly, and shifted, so I knew he was awake. "Caro?" I murmured.

Randy: I wanted to stay like this forever, snugged up against him, not another soul around us. The apartment was quiet; I could hear the clock ticking softly, once my heart stopped pounding like war drums. Through the open door of the bedroom--please don't let Miles come in now--came the soft whirring of the ceiling fans and refrigerator. Michael was warm next to me, his arms solid, holding me close, and I remembered abruptly how Angel would cuddle close to me after sex, like my arms could keep him safe.

Safe. Funny that I felt that way with Michael so quickly.

I raised one hand and scrubbed at my face; I felt sticky now, though not in a bad way. His eyes tracked every movement I made, and I smiled, the urge to tell him what I was feeling nearly overwhelming. "How about we order in Chinese, instead? I don't feel much like going out now."

Michael: "Surely," I replied lazily.

It was another few moments, though, before I had the strength to stir. Randy unwrapped himself from about me and stood, stretching. I watched him with unabashed appreciation; he was a damn handsome man. He skinned off his denims---I'd never given him a chance to fully undress---then half- turned to look at me sprawled beneath the corner of the coverlet, as if to tell me to stop being such a lazy sod.

I was starting to get warm again, but with a sigh, flung back the cover. I rolled up into a sitting position and tugged at a boot. Thank god they were clean; I'd not have gotten into the Mercedes if they hadn't been. Still, I probably should've changed; I didn't have a bootjack here. I tugged at it, listening to Randy's snicker, then flopped back onto my back and raised my leg. "Leave off sniggering and give me a hand, will you?"

Randy: "I like how you wait 'til I'm completely nekkid to ask my assistance." I gave the word the odd emphasis I knew Michael liked; it usually made him laugh at me. I kicked my jeans out of the way and reached for his leg, noting the heat--banked, but still there--shimmering at me from his eyes. I wondered if my eyes matched his.

I'd never seen English riding boots before; my experience with boots was what I wore daily. But these were...different. And vaguely exciting in a way that I found more than a little disturbing. I stroked my fingers once over the length of them, admiring the dark gloss, and the way the leather shifted minutely beneath my fingertips before I reached down and grasped his heel, pulling precisely to start it sliding off. "You either need to practice taking them off, or get a jack, Michael." Or just tell me to do it every time. I shook my head at my last thought and slid the boot completely off. "Gimme the other one."

Michael: "You needn't grouse so," I replied snarkily. "I'm about to purchase the entire menu of a Chinese restaurant for you, so you'd best be nice to me." I grinned at the flash in his eye, then levered myself up again and peeled out of the skintight pants and the long-leg briefs. I was sticky and sweaty and reeked; I certainly had enjoyed getting that way, but didn't particularly care to stay like that. I leaned in and brushed a kiss over his shoulder, then tugged him toward the bath.

Randy: "I don't recall asking you to feed me--dinner out was my idea." There was something about that--about him paying for much of anything--that made me feel vaguely uncomfortable. We'd already talked about rent and utilities, and he wouldn't let me pay either one. It was already figured, Miles took care of it automatically, blah blah blah. I sometimes felt like...well, not a kept man, exactly, but it stung my pride just a little. More than a little, if I were honest about it.

I leaned against the bathroom wall while he fiddled with the knobs; I knew the water would be just this side of scalding, which was perfect. In all my wildest imaginings, finding someone who liked their showers just as hot as I did, never happened. It just wasn't one of those things I'd even included on the list of things to look for. How often did things like this happen? A tug on my arm pulled me out of my musings. "And tell me I didn't imagine that underwear. I didn't believe you wore anything except black boxers." I grinned at him as I ducked under the spray.

Michael: "You know I don't," I replied, and eased my way beneath the spray with a hiss at its heat. "But one simply can't wear black boxers beneath tight white breeches---it's just not done." I soaped the sponge and ran it over his chest. "And I shan't go without, not in those. Sheila keeps waving this...this...*thong* thing before my nose, but I rather think not."

Randy laughed at my aggrieved tone, then turned to let me soap his back. He'd finally become accustomed to the idea that I liked to wash him, that I enjoyed it. He'd also discovered the shower was one of my favored places for sex and had learned that entering with me generally lead to much more than cleansing.

I pulled him back under the spray to rinse the soap and to look at the places I'd left. I'd not broken skin, but there would be a bruise or two. I ran a gentle finger over them. I couldn't be sorry I'd left them, and he certainly hadn't been sorry to get them.

Randy: "They'll probably be pretty spectacularly colored by tomorrow--don't let me out without a shirt on." He pressed a little harder against the one on my back and I winced; it was very tender. I turned then and pulled him close, reaching to bring his head down. Barefoot, he had the advantage of a couple inches on me. When his mouth was just a fraction of space away from mine, I whispered, "I liked that, Michael." I kissed him gently, then a little harder, my tongue teasing at his lips before I backed away enough to take the sponge from his hands. "I liked it a lot."

A fine tremor ran through him when I moved downward a little, licking at the drops of water on his neck, biting down very gently. I ran the sponge over his chest and down his belly, feeling tight, hard muscles under soft skin. I loved to touch Michael, not just for sex, but just to touch him. It'd taken me a little time to get accustomed to this--foreplay and afterplay in the shower, which sometimes led to sex, and sometimes didn't. Michael loved sex in the shower, and he--we--had a shower big enough to do it. I was learning to love it as much as he did. "Turn around, darlin'. Let me get your back."

Michael: I arched into his touch like a cat, and if I could have, I'd have purred. I felt very good, very pleased, generous and expansive. I'd not felt that way, before Randy, for a very long time, and it was good to feel that way again.

When his belly rumbled loudly, we reluctantly emerged and dried off. Whilst he brushed his teeth, I wrapped a towel about me, went into the bedroom, and rang up Miles, telling him to call my favorite Chinese restaurant and have them deliver several entrees. I was starving, and I knew Randy was. After that, I slipped into my robe and surveyed the mess we'd made of the bed. He'd ripped the coverlet as he came; I wasn't particularly surprised nor distressed. I plucked his glasses out of the tangled covers and frowned; we'd broken another pair. It was a good thing I'd had a couple extra pairs made after I'd broken the last two. At least he always had a spare pair. I went back into the bath, where Randy was finishing up, and dangled them before him. "Yet another sacrifice to passion," I said with a wry grin. "And I've ordered food...lots of it."

Randy: I picked the glasses off his fingers and frowned. "I suppose I could always start fixing them with masking tape--be the geeky, eccentric professor or something." Michael snorted at that and turned to brush his teeth. I wiggled the glasses and discovered they weren't actually broken this time; the earpieces just needed some flexing. Thank goodness for flexible wire, and the foresight to see I might need it. I was getting smarter as I got older.

I left him to finish his teeth and went in search of my sweats. I pulled the discarded tee shirt back on, too, silently acknowledging I was dressing against the coming discussion. I hated being vulnerable, and talking about my past had a tendency to make me feel that way. And I was fairly certain that telling Michael I wouldn't go to the damn wedding because I didn't fly would lead to the *why* I didn't fly.

I added socks and headed out to the living area, wondering if there was any pineapple juice left in the fridge. Orange was my favorite, but right now I wanted the bite of the other.

A quick check of the refrigerator left me with a bottle of water--no pineapple--and a rapidly forming hollow feeling in my stomach. I wasn't even hungry any more, the emptiness of earlier being quickly by fear. Or maybe it was just plain dread. Whatever, it was becoming a roiling mess inside me. I added more water bottles to the shelf we kept them on, then closed the door. I didn't want to do this. I sighed and sat down in my recliner to wait for either Michael, or the food, whichever showed up first.

Michael: I took my time, straightened out the wrecked bed, and picked up our scattered clothing. The clothing went into our separate hampers; he took care of his own laundry. I'd thought it foolish and somewhat intractable of him to do so, but after the initial observation, I'd not said another word. If he wanted to drag his linen off to someone to have it done, it was his business. I replaced the boots in my closet, and made a note to myself to give them a good polish. They were rather old, but perfectly broken in, and I wouldn't give them up.

Finished, I went back into the main room. Randy sat in his big recliner fully dressed, and at first glance, he looked relaxed. Another look belied that first impression. The set of his shoulders was very tense, and he had a tiny little frown. I ran my hand over his wet sleek hair and stole his bottle of water for a drink. Ambling into the kitchen, I returned with half a goblet of wine before settling myself into the big chair next to his own, stretching my long legs out before me. His tension hadn't lessened that I could tell. "So. What makes you look so serious? You should be so mellow by now you can't think."

Randy: As if any amount of fucking could do that, could erase my mind of this. I gave Michael a wan smile. "Under ordinary circumstances, I'd say that'd be about right." I took a swallow of my water and wished for half of a second that it was something else entirely. Something stronger--that *would* blur my mind, at least for a while. I shuffled that thought right back out again and sighed. No more beating around the bush. If I didn't offer it up, he'd ask, and it was always better, in my opinion, to offer, rather than to have it pulled out of me. I looked over at him, met his eyes, now cool grey. "I can't...go to the wedding with you, Michael. I'd like to, but I can't."

Michael: I crossed my legs at the ankles and took a sip of wine. He fidgeted and looked as uncomfortable and guilty as a schoolboy caught cheating on exams. He looked out the window, he looked at his socks, he looked at one of the pictures on the wall---everywhere, but at me. It was uncharacteristic; generally, Randy was a terribly straightforward person. "I see," I said slowly. "I understand if you don't wish to go---that's not a problem. But you could have told me three weeks ago when I showed you the invitation. It wouldn't have hurt my feelings, Caro."

Randy: I shook my head, feeling sick at heart, stupid, impatient with everything. "It's not a case of not wanting to go, Michael. *Can't*. I can't go. I don't...fly. Ever." I lost my voice on the last word, remembered terror flooding through me: the terror I felt when the plane crashed; the terror that stayed with me for months, *years* afterward, the terror that came back now whenever Michael climbed on a plane. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and made myself stay in the chair; if I got out, we wouldn't finish this conversation.

Michael: I set the goblet on the table beside me and leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching Randy intently. He fairly vibrated with tension, and his fingers gripped the soft leather of his chair so hard his knuckles were white. I reached out and ran my fingertips over his hand, willing him to relax his death grip, for that was certainly what it looked like; a man hanging on as if his life depended upon not letting go. He looked rather greenish, and for a moment, I thought he might be ill. He was afraid of flying, I realized. No, I amended, it went much further than fear; it skipped over fear and settled directly into terror. I curled my fingers about his wrist, my thumb stroking gently over his pulse, which thudded far too rapidly, as if he'd just run a marathon. "Ever?" I said gently.

Randy: "Once," I managed hoarsely, not sure if I wanted him to touch me or not. It didn't matter, I couldn't move away from him; if I moved, I would likely lose what little composure I had. "Only once." I ran my tongue over my lips, tried to wet them a little. My entire mouth felt like Death Valley, completely arid. "I was...thirteen. The...wing...separated from the fuselage...there were six survivors. I was one of them. My family died."

Michael: "What?" I wasn't certain at first that I'd heard him correctly; his voice had been so very soft, and far away. But then I knew I'd heard what I did; he wouldn't say it unless it was true. Randy's eyes were very expressive, probably more so than he was comfortable with; I could read his thoughts as easily as a favored book just by looking into his eyes. And now...now, I saw old grief, old pain, buried deep, not healed. I leaned closer. "Oh, Caro...I'm so very sorry...."

Randy: "So was I." It was a completely asinine thing to say, but Michael's words hung out there alone, and I felt like I needed to say something to fill the void after them. His hand smoothed over mine again and I let go of the armrest of the chair and grabbed hold of it like I was going down and he could save me. Maybe he could. I looked over at him, at the grey eyes that showed me so much of *Michael*. Right now they showed me sympathy, compassion, caring. Love. It was there, held behind wary barriers like mine was. But I knew, once I looked at him, that I could tell him. He deserved to know. To understand that I wasn't holding back anything from him...because I didn't want to hold back. I gripped him tighter, felt his wince, and tried to loosen my fingers a little. He made a soft sound I interpreted as 'don't worry', and relaxed under my fingers.

"We...were going to Disney World. Family vacation, for my birthday and my little sister's...a joint celebration thing. My mom's cousin was going to meet us...." I closed my eyes briefly, a little surprised by how much it still hurt, even now, nearly eighteen years later. "I don't know what caused it...why the wing separated. Mom and Dad and Jan were...killed instantly, I think. Most of the people on that side were. They were...sucked out, or something...Patty and I--" I stopped to take a deep breath when my voice cracked. "We were...on the other side...couldn't sit together, 'cos the plane was full. Patty was...I'd just gotten her to settle down to sleep... Mom's last words to me were to try to get her to nap...she was only six, Michael." I couldn't breathe, the weight of memories crushing in on me, and stopped, trying to block some of the pain rushing all through me.

Michael: It took only a moment to slide to my knees before him and wrap my arms about him, holding him tightly. He resisted a moment, trying to curl into a tight ball, but I'd have nothing to do with it, and eventually, he allowed me to hold him. His arms crept about me, and he leaned willingly against me. A fine shudder worked through him, but I don't think he wept. I would've understood if he had; some things needed tears, some pain needed expressing. I'd been brought up with the proper English stiff upper lip attitude, but I was enough of my mother's son, of Nonna's grandson, that I wasn't immune to emotion.

To lose all one's family at once...it didn't bear thinking about. I couldn't imagine it. I'd lost Father years ago, and although we'd not gotten along well, it had still hurt. I thought of my family, of all their pictures scattered about the flat, and wondered if I could bear if I lost them all in one fell swoop. I'm not sure I could. I thought of Lizzie, my favorite, and what I'd have done if I'd lost her at such a young age. I squeezed him a little tighter. In retrospect, I couldn't remember seeing any pictures of Randy's family in his old apartment and had wondered about it at the time, but had let it go. As I'd let go the fact he never spoke about his family. I wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure what to say...to say that it would be all right was a patent lie, because although it would get better, it would never be all right. His family was gone, and he was alone. Except for me. He had me, and I was going to be damn hard to shake off.

Randy: God, it'd hurt to tell him all that. The last person I'd told was Bran, years and years ago, and all I'd given him were the barest of details. Not even as much as the sketchy story Michael received. I shivered again and Michael pulled me tighter against him, rocking me as if I were a child needing comforting, which was a fairly apt comparison, actually, all things considered. I relaxed into him after a few minutes, letting him pet me and stroke my back, a little of the tension eased just by his nearness.

The buzzer sounded a few minutes later, and I shifted back when Michael would hold on longer. "Go ahead, get the door. It's probably dinner." I wasn't sure I was still hungry, but the worst was over now; anything I told him about after the crash didn't have near the emotional punch.

Michael: I pursued him and got a kiss before I rose and went to the door, tightening the belt of my robe about my waist. At the door, I glanced back, saw Randy raking a hand through his hair, composing himself.

The man at the door was Edward Tang, from the Jasmine Gardens restaurant. He was the owner's son, a tall, striking young man just barely into his twenties; I knew him well and smiled a greeting. He looked very dashing in his dark suit and perfectly combed blue-black hair.

"Mr. Pierson. What a pleasure to see you once more. You've not been at the Garden for quite a while." His voice was deep and smooth, and reflected his education; I knew he had at least one degree, if not two, one in business.

"I've managed to keep rather busy, but I promise to return and dine like a civilized man. I'm quite surprised to see you here---I'd have thought you'd be too busy for this." I stepped aside and motioned for him to enter, and as he did, he snapped his fingers at two others in red jackets who pushed covered carts before them. I knew Miles had let them up and hoped he'd ordered something for himself; the Jasmine Garden had exquisite food.

"My father asked me to come and extend his greetings and well wishes." Edward shrugged. "I didn't mind." He pointed the servers toward the dining room, and I watched as he trailed along behind them to make certain they set out everything properly. I saw him glance toward the main room and Randy, sitting there still looking rather washed out, then his attention snapped back to his task.

We talked of common things as his men set up the feast--his father's health, his own sons, the success of the restaurant. When he left, I promised again to return, and he promised in return to tell his father.

When the flat cleared, I turned back to Randy, padding across the carpet to lean down and run my fingers over his arm.

"Would you like something to eat now? I know you may not be hungry, but it would probably be a good thing to try and eat."

Randy: I wasn't really in the mood to eat, but it did smell good, and on some level it seemed like a good idea. I could smell the spicy scent of the food rising up around me, reminding me I was still alive, that what I'd remembered was past. Things were safe again. I followed Michael back to the table, remembering the last time we'd had Chinese. We'd turned it into a contest as to who could eat the hottest dishes, ending up with heartburn. I smiled in anticipation of having Indian food with him at some point.

I hadn't been paying attention when the waiters--god, Michael lived in an entirely different world than me, at times--wheeled their carts in. When I got Chinese take-out, it was a couple little white containers. This was...a banquet feast. I shook my head and lifted the lid off one of the dishes--Sweet and Sour chicken. Another one revealed vegetable Lo Mein, and a third was Peppered Beef. There was Hot and Sour soup, egg rolls, and a couple of other dishes I wasn't up to investigating yet. "We'll be eating this for breakfast in the morning," I muttered, settling myself at the table. Michael's knee bumped mine, gently, and I looked up at him. "If...you'd like...I have a photo album. I...haven't shared it with anyone else...but I'd like to show you."

Michael: "I'd like that very much, Caro," I replied, which earned me a smile.

Sometime during the course of the meal, I rose and put on some classical guitar, easy and mellow. I teased him until he sampled some of the more exotic dishes; he'd honed in on the more recognizable ones, naturally. We talked of safe things, non-emotional things--about how I was part owner of Jasmine Gardens, and how I'd met Stephen, Edward's father, years upon years ago, of the two other restaurants I partly owned. He said I had my fingers in too many pies, but I swore I didn't own any bakeries. At least, I didn't think I did. That made him laugh and shake his head ruefully, and I thought a half-smile was better than none.

After we ate, we cleared things away and put the remains of the meal into the fridge. I could always eat it tomorrow, and Randy was a bottomless pit. Edward would send someone over tomorrow to collect the china.

I took the last of the green tea and settled in on the couch while Randy went off in search of his photo albums. I found myself curious about him, about his family, his parents; he'd never been open about them before, and this was a chance to see where he came from.

Randy: I settled myself next to Michael, holding the albums carefully, and smiled at him. "No laughing at the nekkid baby pictures of me." He laughed, but didn't make any promises.

I had three albums of pictures; one was solely of friends and me over the last seventeen years or so, and I set that one aside for later. The other two were pictures of me and my family. Pictures which didn't see the light of day very often. I wasn't sure when I'd last taken them out, probably over Christmas at some point.

The first one I opened was getting kind of ragged and dog-eared around the edges; it contained pictures of my mom and dad before their wedding, and a few pictures of the wedding. Pictures of mom heavily pregnant with the Jan, then pictures of Jan as a newborn. I rubbed my finger over the picture and smiled. "My older sister, Janissa. We called her Jan. She was three years older than me, and as snotty and condescending as an older sister could be. We had a serious love/hate relationship between us." I turned the pages slowly, showing him Jan, and Patty, and the whole of all of us together, reliving when I'd had a family.

Michael: Such a handsome family; Randy truly came by his looks honestly. They all had black hair and fine, fine porcelain skin, and the phrase Black Irish flashed through my mind. Randy looked just like his father, though his father hadn't been quite as muscular as Randy. His mother was lovely, as fine as a cameo portraiture, delicate but with a steely, determined look in her eyes I recognized well from Randy. She looked fragile, but I had no doubt few ever mucked about with her and emerged unscathed.

His two sisters, had they lived, would've been gorgeous women; as girls, they were heartbreakingly pretty. Patty, the youngest, would have been Lizzie's age, and looking at the happy, bubbly child riding on Randy's shoulders in the picture was enough to make my own throat tighten. What if I'd lost Lizzie like that? I'm not sure I could have borne it; of all my siblings, I was closest to Lizzie. I ran my fingertip over her fine black hair. "Such a beautiful family, Caro."

Randy: I touched his finger with mine. "I have trouble seeing them... really *seeing* them, any more. It's been so long now." I flipped the pages back and forth, moving from time to time, covering birthdays and Christmases, and times in between. "I try to imagine what they'd look like now...what they'd be doing...Jan used to talk about wanting to be a clothing designer." I shrugged. "Patty...was too young to tell." I flipped the page again, landing on a picture of my parents, standing behind a weirdly decorated cake, Jan and me flanking them, laughing. We all had the ugliest party hats on. "That was mom and dad's tenth wedding anniversary. Sarah and Roger came to stay with us so they could go for a second honeymoon." I raised my eyes and stared at the far wall for a moment, lost in thought. "They went to Hawaii...came home two weeks later tanned and happy...and mom found out a month later she was pregnant." I looked over at Michael, at his eyes following my fingertip as it moved over the pictures. "Mom would've liked you." I swallowed hard against the warmth creeping up my chest. "Dad would've, too."

Michael: I smiled at him; it was one of the best, most sincere compliments anyone had ever, in my entire life, given me, and I took it for what it was. "I'm sure I would have liked them as well," I replied. "You look just like your father, but I see your mother in your eyes."

That seemed to please him very much; color chased across his cheekbones and crept up the back of his neck. He smiled softly, and gently closed the album, pulling another onto his lap, and opened it. This one had pictures that were clearly years later, when he was close to twenty, filling out, growing terribly handsome. He was still slimmer then, but his shoulders looked just as broad. A lot of them were at the beach; I recognized Sam and Josh, though not in their current massive forms, and in later pictures, his two other friends, whose names escaped me.

And two pictures of a young Hispanic man with skin the color of caramel, liquid black eyes, curly black hair, and an incredibly charming smile. In one, the person who'd taken the picture had caught them unawares, and their body language, close and intimate, gave them away as lovers. In these, Randy was so very young--perhaps fifteen or sixteen, and in the candid one, I could see by his open, unguarded expression just how much this young man meant to him. Such a very long time ago...half his lifetime. "This is a lovely young man," I said. "You looked good together."

Randy: "Angel Ramirez." I shook my head and smiled, glad to be leaving my memories of my family. Even at its worst, nothing with Angel could compare to the other. "God, that seems like forever ago. Sandy took this; she was my best friend at MIT--and the only other person besides me and Angel who knew we were more than just roomies and friends." I touched the picture, remembering the feel of strong hands, of a large body atop mine, of the sound of his voice when he came, shuddering against me. "I think I'm sixteen in this picture; I hit a major growth spurt shortly before I turned seventeen so I didn't look quite so scrawny...God." I shook my head again, and Michael made a soft, inquisitive noise. "Angel *hated* himself for being gay. Oh, he was cool with me...we had some good times. But he just couldn't deal with it. I'd hear him on the phone with his folks, sometimes, talking about the girls he was dating--which was such a crock, because he didn't date anyone but me for the last year and a half he was there. But," I shrugged, "I guess you gotta do what you gotta do." I leaned over and kissed Michael, then rubbed my head against his neck. "I guess that was what freaked me out when you told you'd been married--it was like, oh, man, not another one. But I suppose it's possible to like both." I knew I sounded dubious, even to my own ears, but Michael wasn't Angel. He was secure in who and what he liked...and from what I'd seen so far, it was a wide, wide world of likes for Michael Pierson.

Michael: "For some of us, it is possible to like both. Though we're often given grief from both sides because of it. I learned at a very early age to tell people to sod off," I said with a shrug. "Pleasure is pleasure--the only thing that varies is the equipment. I like men and I like women." Thoughts of women, of their yielding softness and gentle curves, seemed to lead naturally to Danie, and her wedding, something else we needed to discuss. "Randy," I said thoughtfully, "if we came up with alternate travel plans, would you like to go to Arizona with me? If you'd rather not, I understand wholly."

Randy: I turned and stared at him; from bisexual tendencies to weddings--it seemed like a quantum leap, even for me. "That came kind of out of left-field, didn't it? But yeah...as long as it doesn't involve planes or leaving the ground, I'd like to go. I told you I wanted to--if nothing else, I'd like to see this Danie." I smiled at him and reached over to take his hand, twining our fingers together.

Michael: I felt warm and pleased by his acceptance. Randy closed his albums and leaned against me. "I think you'll like Danie. She's very...straightforward." I smiled at the memory of how she'd seen me years ago in that pub in London, had decided she liked me, and had fearlessly gone for me. "I had dinner with her when I was in Phoenix, and she's looking forward to meeting you."

Randy: "Swell." But I bumped my shoulder against his, then settled down a little bit, resting closer against him. All that build-up, all that emotion, never mind a long day beforehand, and some seriously hot sex...I was actually tired. Before midnight. Mark this day on the calendar, folks. I closed my eyes and relaxed. "Is she pretty?"

Michael: He was heavy against me, but it was a good heavy, and I was very grateful to see him relax. I slipped my fingers through his hair, though it was short, it was silky and warm. "Hm. Not model pretty nor actress pretty, but she's quite lovely when she smiles. She...glows. Blue eyes and blonde hair...it's long now, and she wears it up off her neck." Long, gorgeous neck, I thought appreciatively. "Tall for a woman, muscular and athletic. She and Will look nice together...complement one another."

Randy: "That's always good. Couples should complement each other." Michael shifted under me, moving against the arm of the couch. I grumbled, then shifted with him, and settled into the vee between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around my chest, rested his chin on my head. "Oh, that's nice. What're we going to give them for a wedding present?"

Michael: I ran my fingertips lightly over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath cotton. "Danie and Will both like to ski--I've never seen the point of it myself, but they rather enjoy it. I'm giving them a mountain cabin in Aspen."

Randy: I started in surprise. "A cabin? The whole cabin? I mean, to own?" His laughter made the short hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, he was so close. I shivered and leaned back, tilting my head so it lay on his shoulder, so I could see his eyes. "Wow--that's quite a gift."

Michael: I moved my fingertips up to stroke his throat. "I have quite a history with her, Caro. She's a good friend, and I wanted to give her--give them--something they'd truly enjoy. It's a beautiful place--I've been there. One can see for miles."

Randy: "I've heard Colorado is pretty--and I've seen a few pictures. I liked the mountains." I closed my eyes and arched my head back further so he could stroke easier. It felt good to be petted and I made a soft sound of contentment. "You like to do that, don't you? Give gifts to people just for their pleasure."

Michael: I shrugged, knowing that even if he couldn't see it with his eyes closed, he could still feel the movement. "Yes, I enjoy it very much. What is the point of having wealth if you don't share it with those you care for?"

He practically purred beneath my stroking fingers, and his soft, lush mouth curved into contented smile. I glanced at the clock, surprised that it was relatively early for him to be so sleepy, but then, he had ample reason. "Caro," I whispered in his ear. "Let's go to bed, yes?"

Randy: "You say the nicest things to me." I smiled lazily, not particularly inclined to move, but willing if he really wanted to. His fingers rubbed gently downward until he could poke me in the chest and ribs until I laughed softly. "All right, let's go to bed."

It took a few minutes to actually get upright and to lever myself up off the couch, then I stretched a hand out to Michael. He used the leverage, but once he was standing up beside me, I didn't let go. I held him tighter, stepped closer to him. His eyes darkened slightly, the pupils dilated in the soft light. I kissed him very gently, lingering for a moment to whisper, "Thanks...for being strong enough."

Michael: "Thank you for being strong enough," I replied in turn, and meant it; he was a survivor, in more ways than one. I herded him, soft and sleepy and compliant, into the bedroom. At the bedside, he let me take his glasses and fold them carefully, then strip him and tuck him into bed. I moved about the bedroom, turning off lights, closing the door. I shed my robe and slipped beneath the covers, curling into his warm body, my hand stroking over his soft, soft skin with a happy sound. He murmured and shifted rooting about until he finally settled into the place he wanted.

I thought of Danie, probably lying against Will in just this same way, far away in Phoenix. I thought of our dinner together last week, of how she had been so beautiful, gilded by candlelight. Of how she'd laughed and had been happy when I'd told her about Randy. "So you've finally found your favorite American boy, have you?" Her soft, husky voice had teased me; I'd always called her my favorite American girl.

My mouth curved again, remembering how warm I'd felt at her perceptiveness. She was right; I *had* found my favorite American man, and I had every intention of keeping him.

Randy: "This is nice." I shifted over to face him, slipping one leg in between his. I was tired, but not really ready to sleep yet. I wrapped one arm across Michael's chest, fingers stroking idly over warm skin, teasing at rib definition. He shifted beside me, his hand continuing to stroke over my arm, my shoulder, my neck. I sighed and moved a little closer. It occurred to me that never, in all the years I had with Bran--or anyone else, for that matter--had I felt as...safe as I felt with Michael. It took me eighteen months, at least, to work up to saying 'my family died in a plane crash', to Bran, never once telling him I'd been involved, too. Here I was, just a couple months after meeting Michael, blurting out details. Sharing pictures of my family and details of my past. I...trusted him with that part of me. With all of me, actually. That thought surprised me, and I shifted uneasily. Did I really? Did I trust him...did I trust me? I knew what I felt; I'd been dodging it for weeks now, literally. Hard to hit a moving target. But he was lying there, watching me, his eyes dark and shadowy, speckles of light that filtered through the blinds giving them an otherworldly glitter. I took a deep breath and whispered softly, "I love you."

Michael: I couldn't say I was surprised; I *knew* he did. I had known for a long time; he had the most damn expressive eyes of anyone I'd ever known. It didn't surprise me to hear them come out now, as he'd opened up so much to me tonight. What did surprise me was the power of his voice saying those three small, simple words, words that were so easy, but so hard to say. It was like taking a blind jump in a foxhunt; the anticipation, the gathering of muscles, the lift from the ground, the soaring glide over the hedge, and then abruptly, the stumble of the horse on landing, the losing of my seat, and the slam of the ground as I hit, hard. It was like lying on the cold muddy ground looking up at the sky and wondering what the hell had just happened.

But in this case, it was something...wonderful.

He lay there quietly, looking at me, waiting, expectant, eyes huge and dark in the dimness. I shifted over him and leaned down, nose to nose with him, breathing his breath, almost feeling the brush of his lips against mine. I had said the words before, and meant them, but they had never before truly resonated within me, like a tuning fork set to the exact pitch of my heart. I offered him my gentlest smile, the most sincere and truthful one, the one few had ever seen. "And I love you, Randy."

Randy: An odd quiver ran through me that could have been his breath ghosting over my lips, or the scent of *Michael* all around me, or the sound of his voice wrapping itself around my nerve endings...but actually was just hearing him say those words--and seeing the truthfulness of them in his eyes. I pulled him tighter against me, his weight warm and substantial, pressing me against the mattress. I kissed him, just a brush of lips against lips, then smiled, wondering if he knew Latin. He'd been schooled in private boarding schools in Britain; I would bet on it. "Semper quia, darlin'."

Michael: I laughed softly, pleased and warm and touched. "Forever, eh? Latin's a dead language. Try Italian---we say 'per sempre'," I said, giving the phrase its proper lilt and inflection. "Per sempre, Caro."

Randy: "Latin's not dead if you're in science or medicine," I winked, then cupped his face in my hands, smoothed my thumb over his lower lip, so close to mine. "Per sempre, Michael." Then I kissed him.

~finis~

 


End file.
